


Private Jet

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Brief Violence, Dirty Talk, Johncroft, Kidnapping, M/M, PWP, Restraints, Size Kink, and i'm ashamed of myself., john's brief spate with the mile high club, rape/non con, this is filthy and terrible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 15:45:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3331055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>part of the one word bottomjohn prompts.</p><p>mycroft kidnaps john...again. this time he makes sure he can't get away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Jet

When John opens the door to find two large men, all black suits and sunglasses, he doesn’t even stop to think about it. He just sighs, grabs his jacket, and says, “What does Mycroft want now?”

“Mr Holmes has instructed that you’re to be brought to him. Your employer requires your services.”

“My employ—Hold on, Sherlock is not my—”

“Please don’t make this difficult, Doctor Watson. Mr Holmes is insistent that time is of the essence.”

Brief alarms blaze to mind. Coming from Sherlock, that could mean anything from him having left his phone on the other side of the room, to him having been kidnapped and stuffed in a trunk. Coming from Mycroft, however, John’s mind immediately skips to the latter. He can feel his heart pounding in his ears as he runs down the stairs, the two men left to follow in his wake. Mrs Hudson in the hallway calls out a question and he babbles something in return: _Sherlock in trouble, going with Mycroft_. He is out the door and inside the gleaming black car in seconds. It pulls away from the curb and John is left to clench his fists in an agony of impatience and need. He tries to ask questions of the two enormous men he shares the back seat with, but they’re silent, offering no more information than what had already been given. _Mr Holmes instructs…_

It’s the airport that he’s brought to. Not Heathrow but a small little airstrip to the north of the city. There’s a plane on the tarmac, ready to take off. John barely waits for the car to stop before he pushes the door open and is half way to the private passenger jet before Mycroft appears, standing in the open hatch and waiting for him. John doesn’t even wait for an acknowledgement, barrelling in part Mycroft, his nerves singing and on edge. He has visions of Sherlock gagged and tortured, strung up from a hook like an animal being slaughtered. He thinks of Jim Moriarty and Irene Adler and Mary Morstan, the endless number of people who want to see Sherlock dead. He’s shaking with terror and adrenaline, and he doesn’t even stop to look around him till the doors are sealed and the plane is starting to move.

Only then does he register his surroundings. The passenger seats have all been removed to make room for a setting more reminiscent of a sitting room. There are large, plush seats at oblique angles with small tables set out between them. There’s a round dining table with a cushioned bench around it. There are curtains on the rows of round windows and a small bar, and beside it a closed door leading to the front of the plane.

But the last thing, the thing that John really focuses on, is the low wide bed at the back of the plane. It’s not the presence of the bed itself that bothers John, but rather the steel hook in the ceiling above it and the fact that the covers have been stripped back and a long soft rope lies coiled in the centre

“Erm,” he says, trying his best to tear his eyes away, and when he finally does it’s only to see Mycroft watching him with impassive eyes.

“Yes, Doctor Watson?” he says, his voice rolling through the prim accents, smooth and heavy and dangerous.

“Where’s Sherlock? Your—ah—employees wouldn’t tell me.”

Mycroft looks at him, wide-eyed and blank. “Pardon? Sherlock?”

John frowns. “They said Sherlock was in trouble.”

“Did they?”

“Yes. They did.”

“Ah. Well, they lied.”

“Lied.”

“Yes, John. Surely you’re familiar with the concept.”

“Why would they lie?”

“As you said. They’re my employees. They do as they’re instructed.”

John can feel his temper beginning to rise. He’s aware suddenly that he’s in a small enclosed space with Mycroft Holmes with no way to get out. Even as he sits there he watches the ground slowly disappearing beneath the nearest wing, the small plane banking, pulling the earth out of sight.

“You know, Mycroft, you could just phone me instead of kidnapping me,” John says, but as he says the words he’s aware of the bed behind him with the steel hook and the soft rope and he can feel something in his stomach starting to drop, genuine fear rising into his throat and making it ache. But he’s also aware of something beside the fear, swelling up beside it, fluttery and light: excitement.

And even as he becomes aware of it himself, he can see the awareness of it echoed in Mycroft’s face, in the sudden sly smirk that cuts across the blankness of his face and leaves John dizzy, knowing that he’s right. That this is more than the usual checking up into their affairs that happens every month or so in random parking garages and abandoned buildings across the city. This is far more than that.

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “That’s exactly right,” and he pushes the call button on the wall beside him and the door at the front of the plane opens and the two large black-suited men appear.

John stands up, knowing full well he has no chance. He sees the guns holstered at their sides. He’s aware he’s out-armed, out-muscled, out-numbered, but he stills feels his shoulders squaring, his stance lengthening. He can feel the fear and the excitement settling together in a steady rhythm in his gut and he’s far, far too aware of the blood rushing downwards, rushing to where it has no business being right now.

“Mycroft,” he says warningly.

“Really, John. This is so unnecessary,” Mycroft sighs, and with a gesture from him the two black-suited men start to move.

John knows he’s lost in the first ten seconds of the fight. Hell, he knows that in the first half a second, when he’s dodging a blow to his head and getting his own in on someone’s groin. It’s a filthy move and he doesn’t care. He hadn’t learnt fighting just so he could lose. He might have gotten away with it if the man he had hit hadn’t made a point of falling forward onto John himself when he went down. It was a good move, and it effectively ended the fight, though John had kicked and struggled and punched, refusing to give them the satisfaction, aware of his own excitement rising with every landed blow, aware of Mycroft smirking from his seat, and then feeling the clip at the back of his head and not being aware of anything much at all.

Stunned, he goes suddenly limp, his head roaring at him and his vision swimming. He is aware of being tossed, of landing on something soft, but he can no more stop that then he can  the large hands suddenly stripping him a moment later. He rolls with every motion as his shirt is dragged from his arms, his vest pulled over his head and discarded. He can feel broad fingers pulling at his belt and the button on his trousers, and the far away feeling of denim being dragged across his skin and away.

Then suddenly he is in motion again, warm dry hands pulling him upright and more hands stretching his arms above his head. His head lolls as he tries to focus, tries to figure out what’s happening and how to stop it, and with each second that passes it becomes a little bit easier, a little clearer and he can feel control gradually seeping back in.

But he can also feel soft sheets and a springy mattress under his knees, and strong and silken ropes tight around his wrists, his arms high above his head. And close by, too close, Mycroft’s critical face, squinting into his.

“Really, John,” Mycroft says. “You didn’t have to make it so difficult.”

“Piss off,” John says, and is surprised when the words come out clear because his tongue is still trying to remember how to work.

“Lucid,” Mycroft murmurs approvingly. “Well done,” and then reaches for his trousers and unbuttons his fly.

John blinks at him, concentrating on his hands, at those long white fingers working at the buttons. He watches as each one comes undone and he can feel the flutter back in the bottom of his gut, can feel the blood rushing downwards and his cock twitching and swelling and he wishes he could concentrate, keep the eagerness off his face that he knows is there but he can’t. John stares as the last button is undone and the shapeless bulge that was hidden by loose trousers, suddenly gathers a distinctive shape. He can’t stop the unconscious clench of his arse as Mycroft’s long white fingers pull his penis out and John sees for the first time what it is he has to deal with.

It’s huge. Broader and longer than the largest dildo he owns. John stares at it, at Mycroft, primly and properly dressed, with just this single obscene protrusion marring that smooth neatness. It juts out, red and upright and absolutely enormous. John can feel all his muscles clenching and he doesn’t know if it’s in dread or in eagerness.

“What are you doing, Mycroft?” he hears himself say, the words sticking in his suddenly dry mouth.

“Don’t be tiresome, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft says. “I’m going to bugger you. And they’re going to watch.”

John blinks and notices that the two giants who had just handed him his ass are still there, standing at the other end of the small plane and watching with blank looks on their impassive faces. One of them is holding a camera and it’s pointing at Mycroft, at John, who is strung up and naked with his penis already beginning to drip onto the silk sheets he’s so eager to be fucked. John knows he should feel shame, and he does, but instead of making him flag, he feels himself grow harder and is utterly unable to stop the sudden twitch of his hips, the familiar sway as his arse pushes backwards into empty air, searching unconsciously for something to fill it.

“Jesus Christ,” John says, and doesn’t miss the smirk that flicks across Mycroft’s face before it disappears and a cold hand reaches around and squeezes at his arse. John grunts and can’t stop himself from pushing back into that unfamiliar hand and this time Mycroft doesn’t try to hold his smirk back, lets John see it for what it is: triumph.

John snarls at him, but any words are lost by the finger that slips between his cheeks and prods at him, three quick questing pokes, just the tip of a round finger slipping inside the rim. Barely anything, but enough. John’s never had anyone’s fingers there but his own and the shock of it is overwhelming.

Mycroft makes a low, pleased noise, then withdraws his hand only to climb onto the bed a second later. John can’t see him. He’s faced forward, directly into the camera and Mycroft disappears directly behind him. He tries to twist around but two firms hands grab onto the flesh of his arse and he gives a strangled growl as they tug at the flesh, parting it to reveal the crease between. He can feel his own muscles clenching and he knows that it can be seen in the tight hole suddenly laid bare, knows that Mycroft is seeing it and understanding and is probably smiling smugly to himself.

“Tell me, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft says, and John can feel the heat of his breath against his shoulder. “How many times have you put your own fingers in there wishing they were my brother’s?”

“F-fuck off, Mycroft,” John manages to say as the hands disappear, releasing him again, but not loud enough to disguise the sudden snap of a plastic cap being flipped open and the squelch of something wet being squeezed out. Panic unfurls, something too bright in his head, but not soon enough for him to react to before there’s something cold pushed between the crease of his arse and the finger is back, slick insistent. There is no gentle exploration involved in this. John feels the cry torn from his chest, rasping like sand paper in his throat, and Mycroft’s finger is suddenly _inside_ him, cool and prodding and long, pushing in past his rim as if it doesn’t even exist.

And John knows that it might as well not. That he’s clenching around the intrusion as if trying to draw it in. It’s too much, but at the same time not nearly enough, and he knows that’s he’s wide-eyed and open-mouthed, staring into the camera with his arse pushed back as far as he can get it, trying to find more.

Mycroft’s chuckle is an alien sound for John, who’s never heard him laugh before and never in that pleased and proud manner. He knows he should say something, make some snarky comment but he can’t think. That finger is doing things inside him, finding things, bending and searching and pleasure lights up bright and blinding in his brain, eviscerating the thought as it comes.

He is aware of the goon with the camera moving now, walking towards him and around, searching out angles and close ups and John knows he should mind but all he can think about it that finger inside him. He’s arching towards it, his hips straining backwards, his feet trying to find purchase on the bed. He can feel his toes scrambling against the silk and he growls like an animals when a hand lands on his hip, pushing him down, keeping him still. He almost howls when a second later that finger withdraws and Mycroft’s voice, once more against his shoulder, laughs in his ear.

“So responsive. Sherlock can’t possibly know what he’s missing. And that with just a _finger.”_

“F-fuck. You. Myc,” John snarls, and even though it comes out less than convincing between the frustrated pants, John can feel it when Mycroft freezes behind him, and a second later his voice again, low and dangerous.

“What fun breaking you would be. I do wish we had more time, John,” and John doesn’t have time to protest before the hands are back on his hips and there’s something at his hole. But it’s not a finger. It’s not even two fingers. It’s slick with lube and fever hot and it’s _enormous._

It’s an encroachment, something unmistakably invasive. For the first time since this started John finds himself pulling away, trying to make space between him and the thing attempting to enter him.

Two hands on his hips hold him still, fingers making indents into his skin, and he feels the bruising force of them, keeping him there as the slow incursion pushes forward, unstoppable, something as inevitable as a glacier, enormous and deliberate.

John’s mouth is open, something high pitched and wordless emerging, a sound he doesn’t recognise as coming from himself. The stretch is unfathomable, impossible, but he can feel the head of the cock at his hole slowly breaching him nonetheless. Pushing past the rim and sliding further until he can feel it inside him, slowly gaining momentum and force, a little bit deeper with every shallow thrust of Mycroft’s hips.

He’s aware of Mycroft, panting into his shoulder, quiet words pouring into his skin. “Tight, Doctor Watson. Very tight. Have you never been breached before? Is my penis the first to fuck that hole? Will my come be the first inside you? I will come in you, John. I will mark you so deep no matter how much my brother fucks you after he will never fully reach me. I intend to stay, Doctor Watson. I intend for you to come crawling back to me.”

John wishes he could close his ears against this litany, soft and threatening in his ear, but the larger part of him strains to listen, quiets his own strangled noise to hear better and inside he is agreeing, something screaming in fierce need at the possession in that tone, something needing to be possessed. He doesn’t know at what point he stops fighting, at what point he stops pulling away and instead is pushing back, but suddenly he is desperate for Mycroft to hurry up. To stop going so slow. To fill him up, to push inside him and just have done. He wants to feel the silk of Mycroft’s suit flush against his too-hot skin. He wants to feel what it’s like to be torn apart, to be dragged to pieces from the inside.

And suddenly the wordless noise isn’t wordless any more, and he can hear himself, breathy and low and fierce, straining between panting breaths, “Please, please, please. Please fuck me. Please just fuck me. Fuck me. Please.”

Behind him, Mycroft stops, the slow invasion of the thing that’s tearing him to pieces is suddenly stopped, and it’s not enough, not nearly enough. John wants more. He wants it all. And he sobs, the words breaking and he tries to push back, tries to fuck himself if Mycroft won’t do it, but the hands on his hips are like steel and he’s stopped.

Then like an answered prayer, with a quiet threat in the tone, Mycroft’s voice in his ear: _“Say. My. Name.”_

And John doesn’t even hesitate. “Mycroft,” he says, feels it break across a sob. And one more time, “MYCROFT!” and this time he shouts it, screams it, and behind him Mycroft chuckles, dark and low and dangerous.

“Good boy,” Mycroft says, and slams his cock all the way into John.

John screams. He can feel it tear at his throat, ripping at his lungs. He feels torn in two and there is pain, sharp and hot and aching, but the pleasure is far, far more, and dimly he’s aware that he’s back to pleading, or trying to plead, but the words are shattering on contact, coming apart in the air, and he doesn’t know if Mycroft can understand but it doesn’t matter because he’s fucking him now. Long slow thrusts, in and out, in and out, and John can feel himself emptying and filling and emptying again.

It’s so deep inside him, his hole stretched far past what he thought it could endure. He can feel it being stretched further at every stroke, can feel it trying to contract around the cock pushed forcibly past its outer barrier. Mycroft is grunting, a panting moan that exhales at every sharp thrust and John is screaming, pleas and begging interspersed with just the name, “Mycroft! Mycroft! Mycroft!”

John has never been filled like this before. He had never dreamt it like this. Behind him, Mycroft is talking again, words breaking out of him at every thrust. “Do you know how deep I am inside you? Do you know how far I reach? How much of me is being left behind? You will never get rid of me, John. Every night that my brother takes you after this—and he _will_ take you after this—you will be wishing it were me. Every thrust of his cock you will be screaming my name. I will be fucking your arse for the rest of your life. I will see that you come crawling back to me, begging on your hands and knees for me to just take you one more time. To fill you as you were meant to be filled. This is what you’re for, Doctor Watson. This is what you’re good at. To be fucked and filled and fucked again.

“I should keep you here. Tie you to a leash and keep you naked. I’ll wait just long enough for that little hole to shrink back to its proper size. Just long enough so that every time I fuck you it will be like the first time. So that every time you will be screaming and begging me for mercy like you are now. Would you like that, John? Would you like me to put you on a leash and fuck you forever?”

John doesn’t know what he says, what he’s capable of saying, but the words in his ear are branded, as invasive and lasting as Mycroft’s cock. He can feel himself building, he can feel it becoming too much, just enough, not enough. He needs to come so badly but Mycroft isn’t touching him and his hands are tied above him, stretched far away so he can’t reach. He must have been begging though because Mycroft laughs, another chuckle that bleeds into his skin.

“You want to come, Doctor Watson? You will have to do so without my help. You are here to be fucked, that’s all.”

And like that it suddenly becomes too much, too much to hold onto, too much to control. With a brief, choked wail, John comes, something released in him he hadn’t known he’d been holding onto. He is aware of the universe shrinking, of the bright pinpoints of sensation impacting in on themselves before exploding outwards, and then he is keening, high and loud, as every pulse is wrung from him, dragged from him, left to spatter on the silk at his knees.

And when he’s dry, he falls forward, choked and crying. Or at least tries to, but his hands are still tied and he’s left to dangle, his balance gone as behind him Mycroft drags his hips back with a grunt and continues to thrust, harder and faster then before, and John is aware of far too much sensation, of far too much everything. He begins to squirm, trying to drag himself away but the hands only tighten and Mycroft lets out a cold breathless laugh and pushes into him again.

And on that last stroke, Mycroft comes with a small grunt of satisfaction. John feels the heat bloom deep inside, fever-hot and burning. He feels like he’s expanding and he stares down at his belly, half expecting to see Mycroft’s cock outlined there from the inside, his gut expanding with the come being pumped into him in small flashing pulses. And all at once he is aware of how empty he’s about to be. How loose and aching and hollow, and for the first time John can feel himself burning up, is aware of the camera only yards away, of the two men watching him with blank faces. Aware of how taken he is, how badly he’s lost. He stares at his stomach, feeling the slow deflation of Mycroft’s penis buried in his hole, almost gently slipping out of him and he can’t stop himself clenching, can’t stop himself trying to hold onto it, onto that feeling of fullness, of completeness, of being just beyond that edge of too-far. And he wants it, _God_ he wants it. He makes a sound, something animal and pitiful and Mycroft laughs behind him. A quick cold kiss is pressed onto his shoulder and then Mycroft is gone and John is empty. He can feel the come sliding down his thighs, warm even against his feverish skin, and there’s so much of it. He feels soaked. He feels stretched. He feels used.

And abruptly, the ropes holding him up are released and John is falling forward, slumping uncontrolled into the mattress. He’s aware of the grind of landing gear, of a brief gravity defying dip, and then the thump as the ground comes up to meet them and he falls, rolling off the bed and onto the floor, completely unable to stop himself.

And when he looks up, Mycroft is standing above him. Still fully clothed, only a single strand of hair out of place to show his exertion. And his hands, long, white, and unshaken, carefully slip his penis back into his trousers and button them closed.

John stares at him, at the bored, impassive face. And then he spits. It’s hardly effective as his mouth is dry as paper, but it makes him feel better when he looks up into Mycroft’s face and says, “Piss off, Myc.”

And Mycroft smiles, a pleased expression, and John tries to deny the thrill of excitement that blooms in him at that sign.

“Say my name, John,” Mycroft says, and without another glance he turns and walks away. The door is unsealed and open and John is aware of being naked, of what he looks like, can hear Sherlock’s voice already, panicked and demanding. Sees the shadow of that familiar frame before Sherlock himself is there, taking it in, figuring it all out (as if that were difficult) and John _wants_ to be pleased to see him. _Is_ pleased. But he’s also pleased when Mycroft pauses just at the top of the short stairs to the tarmac. Pauses and waves a small tape from a video recorder between two long fingers and without looking at John says, “I’ll send you a copy, Doctor Watson,” and disappears out the door.


End file.
